


The Awakening

by Demitria_Teague



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Adult Situations, Alternate Universe - Supernatural Elements, Alternate Universe - Vampire, Awesome Molly Hooper, BAMF Jim Moriarty, BAMF John Watson, BAMF Molly Hooper, BAMF Sherlock, Blood Drinking, Blood and Injury, Character Turned Into Vampire, Fantasy, M/M, Magic, Mention of Dubious Concent, Mentions of Blood and Torture, Sherlock Canon AU, Sherlock-centric, Temporary Character Death, Vampire Moriarty, platonic, vampire
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-24
Updated: 2017-07-24
Packaged: 2018-12-06 07:24:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 9
Words: 17,768
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11595747
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Demitria_Teague/pseuds/Demitria_Teague
Summary: When Moriarty becomes a vampire, he and Sherlock are forced to study the supernatural.  Molly is tired of being a push over, but her confidence is shattered, when after being bit by Moriarty, that they share a psychic link.  The government weaponizes power, so John agrees with Sherlock (even if he hates it) not to tell Mycroft about Moriarty's change.





	1. 1

**Author's Note:**

> Warning: There's "mention" of rape, so no Tag for it. I recommend if even that's triggering, avoid the part where Molly begins to do the autopsy on Moriarty. Which leads me to the next Warning: Temporary Character Death (Moriarty) - and when I say temporary, I literally mean that scene begins and ends on him being "not dead"... well... define dead.

**Metamorphosis Series:**  
**Book One**  
**The Awakening**

**Chapter One**

    With a shaking bloody hand, Jim Moriarty turned the door-knob of two-two-one-B-Baker Street. He quietly opened the door - midway, a dizzy wave made him sway towards it. Gritting his teeth, he stopped it from slamming against the wall. He had to be quiet. He needed help and wouldn't get it if he were to be discovered by their Land Lady, Ms. Hudson. There may have been screaming, possible things being thrown at him, and then the Police would have been called.  
    No-no. His words were breathy as he said, "Too soon. Not yet." He kept his back to the door as he took in a few deep breaths. He was tired, sore, and it took ever bit of his remaining strength to keep himself upright. After what he'd been through this was cake. That's what he told himself as he closed the door. The blatant lie evoked an involuntary huff of amusement.  
    Even that sounded tired.  
    He braced his palms on the closed door and shut his eyes. Dizziness threatened to slam him in to unconsciousness. "Almost there," he whispered. His chest moved quickly with struggled breaths. He was so tired.  
    White spots in his vision didn't stop him from going to the stairs. He slid his hand along the wall to keep standing, and then he used the banister to go the rest of the way up. It was slow going. Deprived of air lungs made his sore muscles burn as he went up. Sherlock being home was a gamble - the Flat turned out to be empty.  
    He closed the door, went to the Seating Room, grabbed the blanket from Dr. Watson's chair, lay on the couch and covered his entire body. They may forgive him for dripping blood everywhere. Probably not. It wasn't like it'd matter. He hadn't turned on a light and the darkness made him feel relaxed - Free.  
    He could finally just stop, and he had. Dizziness crashed over him and this time he didn't fight it. His awareness abruptly dropped and then swirled down - clockwise around, and then his covered body took on a heavy appearance. A few vehicles outside went by. Silence swelled in the darkened room, bringing the refrigerators hum to attention.

**|**

    "I can't wait to go to sleep," John said.  
    "Well, it has been over twenty-four hours, so it's understandable," Sherlock said.  
    They were on the sidewalk, heading for the door. John's exhaustion made him even point at it. "Yes," he said and walked faster.  
    Sherlock's eyes were heavy lidded, with light gray circles just beneath his bottom lid. His curly hair was barely frizzled though. He'd looked a lot worse and still stayed up much longer. John reached for the door and he grabbed his wrist to stop him. "What," he asked, no longer sounding tired.  
    Sherlock rarely touched anyone, so the shock caused a burst of adrenaline. "There's blood on the door-knob and the door," he said.  
    John looked at it and yes, there it was. Sherlock, with an ever gloved hand when outside, turned the door-knob. He slowly opened the door, John peeking under his arm. There was no one inside and there were no sounds hinting at Ms. Hudson being home. But that didn't mean she wasn't.  
    Bloody footprints started at the door and went up the stairs. "Do you think it's Ms. Hudson's blood here," John asked.  
    "No. The footprints are too big and if Ms. Hudson was injured, it wouldn't make since for her to go outside and then come back in to the Flat. She'd of called Emergency, rather she was inside or away from here. Or someone else would have," Sherlock said.  
    Relief flooded him and after taking in a deep breath John followed him to the stairs. Sherlock used his clean glove to touch below lines of blood on the wall as he went. All signs pointed to the injured person going to the Flat. It hadn't been the first time something like this had happened, but there'd never been this much blood. They'd even come home to find a dead body in the Seating room.  
    It was the victim's dying wish for them to solve their murder. John may have been a Doctor, but he'd just eaten and he was tired. He wasn't sure he could handle seeing a corpse right now, and with this much blood, he was pretty sure it's what they were about to find. The Flat's door was open - blood was on it's knob as well, and a bloody hand print above it. Sherlock studied it then said, "The palm is more bold than the fingers, which makes since."  
    "The person could be five-three at most, but the thickness on the knob means they squeezed it hard, and pushed the door open in an up-like manner. Like the evidence shows, they're obviously wounded, most likely already dead. They had to have been leaning over, so most likely a stomach wound. Although, it could be broken ribs, but if that were the case, they wouldn't have pressed up. They would've pressed forward."  
    "They were so weak that they shouldn't have been able to get here. Who ever they were, they were determined."  
That Sherlock said they 'were' confirmed the victim was already dead. Also, that he didn't say 'boring' meant he was, at the most, curious. The flat was illuminated only by the lit building across the street and the street lights, but the Flat was higher, so they could barely make out the shape of things. Sherlock clicked on the standing lamp and he blinked. "The couch," he said tonelessly.  
    A small crease appeared between John's brows. As many dead bodies as he'd seen he'd mostly developed a tolerance for the sight of them, but none affected him as much as a person who appeared to have died peacefully, when it'd been anything but. This one had most likely been stabbed and had used their last bit of energy to come to them for after death retribution. They were hidden beneath his personal blanket, curled towards the couch. "They couldn't have been there long," he said.  
    "There's no stench."  
    "Yes," Sherlock said distractedly. He was walking towards the couch, predatorily focused on the covered body. He worked a part of the blanket over their middle, which left their face and legs concealed. "It came free easily. The body isn't stiff, but the blankets not warm."  
    "It feels room temperature. It makes it impossible to determine the length of time they've been dead. Strange." He uncovered their face and his eyes squinched up. Blood was splattered on their right cheek, over their nose, and on their forehead.  
    The corner of their lip was busted and bruised, blood had run down their chin and dried, and blood had dried in their nostrils. His initial reaction to exactly who this was should have been dramatic, but it was too improbable for him to process, much less accept. "John, can you confirm something for me," he said, once again, tonelessly.  
    He'd remained a reasonable distance back. Immediately walking forward he said, "What?"  
    "I just... Just do it. Tell me who this is." He stepped back enough for him to see.  
    One glance and he knew. "My God," he said. "It's Moriarty."

**|**

    Sherlock groaned in that life suffering way he does when he's just done. With whatever the current thing he's being forced to endure is. He was known for dramatics. "You've asked the same question three times in different ways. Like rewording it will make us slip up and admit to murder," he said to Lestrad, and if anyone else would've said that last part you'd think it had been the slip up.  
    Sherlock was different. His offense usually meant he knew something you didn't and that he was disappointed by how simple minded everyone else was. Like knowing what others didn't was the most exasperating thing he'd ever experienced. He and John were seated across Lestrad's work desk. Because of their upstanding reputation... yeah right (even though they solved most of the crimes) with the police force they were there instead of the interview room.  
    Actually, Lestrad, the head detective, was a close friend. So close, in fact, that they referred to him by his first name, Greg. Well, John did. Sherlock forgot (douchely pretended not to remember) it most of the time. Thankfully, Sherlock had gained his respect and he never took it seriously, and Sherlock occasionally throwing his name out there, proving that he did know it, showed that he also considered him a friend.  
    "We were on that Case, the one with the missing husband, the one you gave us, and we stopped to get Fish and Chips before we went home," John said tiredly.  
    Lestrad had a Manila folder open on his desk and had written their statement down, plus the answers to his additional questions. "It's procedure, you know that," he said kindly.  
    "Yes yes. Can I go now. I want to be there when Molly examines Moriarty's body," Sherlock said. John sighed resignedly. Usually, he wouldn't do that much.  
    Sherlock was Sherlock and morbidity didn't register in his brain. Only an inexplicable need to Know to Learn to Understand - everything. Minus anything containing the Solar System. He'd - Begin Quote: "Deleted useless information to make room for important things." - End Quote.  
    "Just one last question."  
    "Ugh. What?"  
    Undaunted by Sherlock's unrestrained irritation, Lestrad said, "Any theories on why Moriarty would come to your flat just to die? Did he think you'd try and solve his murder?" He hesitated, then said, "Do you plan on trying to solve his murder?"  
    "I haven't decided yet," Sherlock said.  
    John looked at him in surprise and said, "Really? I thought you'd jump at the chance. Moriarty was you're-" He did air-quotes saying, "-greatest distraction yet. And someone took that away from you."  
    Lestrad closed the folder and put his pen in the blue mug with the rest of them. "I wished I could say I'm surprised, but I'm really not," he said.  
    "Yes, typical," John said. He looked at Sherlock again and his expression was blank. He didn't care what they thought. His awareness was fully on the Morgue he'd yet to get to.  
    "Does that mean I can go," he said.  
    Waving a dismissive hand, Lestrad said, "Yes yes. Go." He sounded tired, but no where near how John did.  
    Sherlock was gone in a flair of coat and purposeful strides. John rubbed his eyes and told Lestrad that he'd better follow him, to the best of his abilities, keep him in track around Molly. Manners were something Sherlock had, up until they'd met, been thought of as annoying and useless. Honestly, he hadn't truly understood the concept (Manners are a social necessity and the proper way to associate with "Human Beings.") In the two years John had known him he'd managed to help him cultivate, at the least, that concept.  
    Plus, that manners got you further than being rude, "and the world isn't just about you, Sherlock." It was still hit and miss.

**|**

    Seeing a Psychopath who had killed so many innocent people, and deceived her in to dating him - he could have killed her - laying on her Slab was beyond unnerving. His face was soft line mixed with delicate features. Before Molly had known him he'd looked so cute, so innocent, and he'd seemed like such a sweet heart even. Even in death that innocent deception was present. His eyelids held the most delicacy and she studied them, taking in his short, light brown eyelashes.  
    He looked peaceful. The thought of cutting him open made her feel sick. She leaned her head back, closing her eyes, and sucked air in through her nose. This was who she was, a mortician - she could do this. First, she had to analyze his body, th-th-then the cutting.  
    She cleared her throat, adjusted her lab coat, and turned to the silver instrument tray. She removed a pair of bright blue elastic gloves, happy to see they weren't powdered. The powder made her hands break out. A blue paper blanket covered Moriarty from his neck to his ankles. She rolled the top to his belly-button.  
    She clicked on a hand held voice recorder and spoke aloud as she analyzed his body. "Subjects Name: Jim Moriarty, Caucasian Male, Age: thirty-one, Height: Five-three, short brown hair, brown eyes. Large purple bruises cover the Sternum, which no doubt means multiple broken ribs, will know for sure during the Autopsy. Wound to the right side of bottom lip, gash in right side of right eyebrow, large bruise on right cheek. The yellow with in the brown means it's been healing for a while, so it's older than the previously mentioned ones."  
    "Possibly a bruise over a bruise, which means repeated abuse to same area over short periods of time." She opened the fingers on his left hand and said, "Left hand cuticles are red and swollen and top knuckles are broken open, which tells me he was left handed. Assumed Hypothesis is that he was in a recent altercation, but the bruises once again suggest repeated abuse. It's possible he was being held against his will and tortured. From his hand wounds it's seems he fought back, and recently."  
    "These wounds are fresh. Right hand has a purple bruise around the wrist, in the shape of a large hand and fingers. Who ever did this was very strong. Attackers Estimated Height: Six foot to Six foot two." She removed the blue paper blanket completely and froze.  
    Tingles ran from the middle of her spine to the back of her head. She felt sick again. "Large dark brown bruises on both hips... in the shape of large hand prints. Knees are bruise a darker brown color, like he lost his balance and fell. His feet are in good condition, meaning he had been wearing shoes."  
    "However, the shoes weren't present at the Scene."  
    She involuntarily gulped at what she had to do next. The Rape Kit. She knew already. The knowledge that he'd suffered like that, regardless of who he was- was- horrific. And her findings confirmed her suspicion. "Subject has been recently sexual assaulted."  
    Her voice didn't waver this time. She clicked the recorder off and closed her eyes, her hand still on the button. "Moriarty... Jim," she said. "You didn't deserve this." She opened her eyes and brought her hand to her side.  
    "I'm so sorry." Her eyes stung and she sniffed before fanning her face. She needed air, but it was unethical to leave the Morgue once she'd started. Instead, she walked to the other side of the room and braced her hands on an empty Slab. It was a natural human response to feel emotionally affected by tragedy, even more so when you know the person, but this level of emotion...  
    She couldn't help it. He was Jim in her mind, regardless, and she hadn't experience the Moriarty side of his personality. She refused to feel weak. Emotions were Human and she accepted hers. More people would be happy if they did the same. Accept you're human, analyze your feelings, move on.  
    With that in mind she pushed away from the Slab. She turned around and felt a scream gather in her throat, and freeze there. She couldn't speak, she couldn't think, she couldn't move. Moriarty was there, his expression was blank, his pupils were completely dilated. They were what scared her the most.  
    He looked inhuman and she felt more fear than she ever had. She watched his left arm move towards her, felt his fingers close around the back of her neck, and they were a strange temperature of cool. Not cold like being a corpse laying on a cold metal Slab way, but just... cool. It made her think of Life. If him standing in front of her wasn't proof enough that he was alive, then his temperature was.  
    But what was wrong with his eyes? His top lip raised and her eyes widened. Fangs. He had fangs. No, this had to be a trick.  
    But she'd checked his pulse and he'd been dead. Besides acknowledging the obvious she couldn't think - still, or move. She was going to die. He brought her against him and him being naked was a fleeting thought. Another scream became stuck in her throat.  
    Her arms were barely raised from her sides. They wouldn't move either. She was paralyzed from fear. There was a rip sound and cold morgue air told her it was her left sleeve. Her shoulder was bare.  
    The pain of fangs puncturing just behind her shoulder kicked her body in gear. Her hands flew to his sides and she growled. The vocalization was an involuntary reaction to pain, but her eyes felt dewy from un-shed tears, and she felt helpless. Now she could feel the tight sensation of him sucking on her neck. It hurt.  
    Her arms shook from shock as she tried to push him off. Moriarty took a step forward, throwing her off balance, and she would've fallen against a Slab if his hold on her hadn't been as firm as it was. "Get off," she only managed to whisper. It felt wrong to call him Moriarty, so she didn't. "Jim..."  
    "Jim, please. Get off." Another tight suck to her shoulder and blurriness crept in to the corners of her vision. No, he had already taken too much. Any more would bring her closer to the death she'd been expecting.  
    "Jim Jim," she said in panic. "Stop. Stop, you have to stop. Jim." A sob abruptly left her mouth and tears flooded her vision.  
    She clawed at his sides, his shoulder, his back, and got no reaction from him. He felt like a wall against her, too strong to be human. Even though she knew he wasn't human, couldn't be, her mind couldn't process it, and she was dying. In a blur of seconds her neck stung, the grip on her was gone and she was falling. She abruptly stopped falling and her head spun.  
    She felt herself being lowered, felt the floor underneath her, couldn't process the cold, and a pole from the bottom of a Slab holding her in a sitting position. Her breathing was erratic and she squinted, trying to figure out what had happened, what was happening. She first saw alabaster skin, kneeling, Jim's face blinked in and out of focus. He looked... worried. "Strange," she mumbled.  
    The world titled and she had the thought it wasn't the world, but her that was moving. She was carefully righted back to a sitting position. When she came to she was laying down, a weight was on her, and a minor ache pulsed in her temples. She tried to sit up and felt a hand on her chest. "I wouldn't do that if I were you," she heard.  
    She touched the hand in confusion. Two things registered at once. Jim, no - Moriarty was standing over her, touching her, and she was laying on a Slab. Her eyes widened and she opened her mouth to scream. The hand on her covered it.  
    This time when he spoke his thick Irish accent registered in her brain, causing the hair on the back of her neck to raise. "I'm not going to hurt you," he said.  
    Who was he trying to kid...? Something was niggling in her mind, but she couldn't put her finger on it. She'd analyzed his body... apologized to his corpse for what he'd endured before death... and... h-he was a freaking vampire. He'd attacked her.  She shoved his hand off and tried to get off the Slab.  
    Her head spun violently and she nearly toppled head first in to the floor. He was suddenly in front of her and she couldn't fight back as he eased her back down. "You have an I.V. in you're arm," she heard him say. "Rather nifty having a blood supply of Oh-Negative down here. I wonder where you got it seeing as only six-point-six percent of the population have it."  
    "Well compensated donors," she said. Her eyes were closed. "So, you're giving me a transfusion. Why?"  
    "Because it's possible you may die with out it and it's not like I can just take you up to the main hospital wing... and it's not like I'm going to leave you here to try and make your way there on your own. So... transfusion."  
    She groaned. It felt like someone was hammering her temples.  
    "Would you like some Tylenol. There's a full bottle in the desk drawer."  
    "Yes, please," she said before she thought about it. She couldn't accept medicine from him. What if he tried to poison her now? Did that make since? Why would he do that? Wouldn't he have already killed her if he'd wanted to.  
    Yes.


	2. 2

**Chapter Two**

    "Sherlock, would you please slow down. I'm so tired I feel like about to fall over," John said.  
    Sherlock sighed and halted. He jacket collar concealed his mouth as he looked over his shoulder. His annoyance melted when he saw how tired he really was. His eyes were half lidded and his shoulders were drooping.  
    John's gave a strained thank you. He kept his pace slower this time. That he'd done it was a sign that he cared. They had used the elevator to go down four floors and the change had been immediate. The walls 'nor hallway were sterile white.  
    The walls were neutral gray and the floors, off-white mixed with faded orange.  They passed an aged gurney against the wall and a few rarely used offices with large glass windows.  
    Sherlock's phone rang and he dug it out of his large coat pocket. He halted and curious, John stopped to watch him. "Molly-Molly... what's wrong," he said. His right arm had bent, like he was reaching out for comfort. John unknowingly moved a fraction towards it, but they didn't touch.  
    At the change in Sherlock's expression John tilted his head. There was an intensity that anyone else would've assumed was anger, but John could tell he was confused. Very confused. Sherlock said, "I'm already on my way. I'll be there in a minute." He hung up, still looking confused.  
    "Well," John said.  
    Looking unfocused he said, "Molly said that... Moriarty... is alive."  
    An amused sound came from John and he said, "That's impossible. We both saw the body. He's dead. Why would she say such a thing?"  
    "I know, and I have no idea." He looked at him and said, "But something's wrong." Shock had kept him from immediately rushing that way. His eyes focused and he was back to himself, sharp gaze, determined, and then his burst of movement had John moving as quickly as him. The Morgue had double metal enforced doors.  
    They pushed them open and froze. Wide-eyed they saw him. Moriarty, the man who relished in playing deadly games with Sherlock. The Psychopath felt no remorse for killing innocent people. He was no longer corpse pale and his wounds were gone.  
    He was wearing light blue Scrubs and his feet were bare. Molly sat on a slab, two over from his. Looking at them she turned her cellphone nervously over in her hands. Her left sleeve hung in tatters, revealing her shoulder. Gauze was taped to it.  
    "Oh, my God," John said hurrying towards her.  
    Sherlock glanced at them and then turned a glare towards Moriarty. "Did he do this? What happened," he heard John say.  
    "Hi," Moriarty said in that sing-songy way he'd done when they'd first met. This time his face wasn't blank. His eyebrows were raised, his eyes glistened like they'd done when he'd played Jim from I.T., and his smile didn't reach them. It was more of a grimace that made him look... embarrassed.  
    "How is this possible," Sherlock said.  
    John said, "You son of a-"  
    "No need to be nasty," Moriarty said.  
    Sherlock looked at them. Molly was covering her shoulder and John had a hand on her arm. He looked like he wanted to kill him.  
    "I didn't do it on purpose. How was I supposed to know I'd come back from the dead, and needing blood no less."  
    "Molly, what's he talking about," John said.  
    Sherlock looked at Moriarty. His face appeared strained, like he was holding back from showing dramatic offense. His voice was breathy from disbelief, but his eyes sparkled with intense curiosity when he said, "You were dead, though."  
    Sighing, Moriarty rolled his eyes. "I was," he said.  
    "Then how-"  
    "I don't know. If I did..." He made an amused noise. "I have no idea where I was going with that sentence. I honestly don't know."  
    "I mean, there was that little bit about a vampire abducting me and keeping me captive for eight months. Maybe it had something to do with that." He looked way too amused.  
    "Vampires? That's-"  
    "I know, right?" He looked at Molly and Sherlock's nostril's flared. He went to her and blocked her from sight.  
    "Sherlock," he heard Molly say, and then he felt her hand on his shoulder. He turned to look at her. Except what was hidden by the gauze she had no visible wounds. He said, "What did he do to you?"  
    "He's not joking. He is a vampire," she said.  
    His head shook jerkily, because he didn't know how to respond.  
    "I know it's crazy, but he has fangs. I saw them and he bit me. He actually drank my blood."  
    "That's..." Even John couldn't respond.  
    "I said I was sorry," Moriarty said. He sounded like he meant it, but there was an underlying amusement, like he couldn't himself.  
    Looking at him, Sherlock said, "Vampires aren't real. This is some kind of trick. His supposed death was an illusion, and he's getting off on the fact that we fell for it."  
    "Oh-ho-ho. I guess you have it all figured out then," Moriarty said in a way that made him hesitate. Vampires weren't real. He really looked at him... and got nothing revealing how he'd fooled them. Compared to how he'd looked in the Flat he looked healthy. His skin was smooth, no visible pores, enough peach in the alabaster tone to show he was alive, his hair had grown out and was thick, his fingernails shined like he'd visited a salon.  
    He looked better than he ever had.  
    "Prove it," Sherlock said.  
    "What?" Moriarty's gaze sharpened, like he was making sure he'd heard him right.  
    "I said prove it. If you're a vampire, prove it." He smirked and straightened his shoulders.  
    "Sherlock, no," Molly said and her fear made the hair on the back of his neck stand up. She'd been attacked, no doubt, and fooled in to thinking he was a vampire. What he'd done to her was sick. He'd stabbed her shoulder, but not with actual fangs. It just wasn't possible.  
    Customized dentures, perhaps.  
    Moriarty fluidly pushed himself off the slab and landed on his feet. He straightened his shoulders and Sherlock was unnerved by his confidence. He said, "Just remember, you asked for this." There was no warning. Moriarty was two Slabs down and then he was a hairs-breath away.  
    He watched as his light brown irises were drowned by the full expansion of his pupil's. His own eyes had widened. Moriarty didn't blink - it was more unnerving than when Molly had told him not to agg him on. He couldn't stop a gulp. Moriarty was shorter than him, so he had to look up at him.  
    He raised his head more and Sherlock could feel his breath on his lips. He said, "I bet you're wondering how." His mouth moved a couple times, but no response came. "Yes, of course you don't know what to say. I am a vampire."  
    "Vampires aren't real," he reflexively said and it came out low. Shock kept him from being angry at the obvious weakness.  
    He opened his arms and said, "And yet, here I am." Like an animal he tilted his head and stared. He still hadn't blinked. Sherlock held himself tall, refusing to back down. Moriarty leaned closer and he had the impulse to move back.  
    He didn't.  
    Moriarty did something that made his nerves prickle with caution. He closed his eyes and slowly inhaled. The sound of his voice startled him. He said, "Mm, your scent is... mouth watering, Sherlock."  
    "My scent," he said without emotion. He didn't believe he was a vampire. Somehow, this was all a trick. Being wary was logical, but he couldn't help being intrigued. Human Interest was a guilty pleasure, and Moriarty was different than ninety-eight percent of the population.  
    He opened his eyes and they were heavy, like he was... No. "You're body heat is higher than most, you're male so there's a large salt content to your skin, and there's something light to your scent. Do you use floral body wash?" He gave him a teasing smile.  
    Sherlock's raised his chin.  
    "You do, don't you. That's delicious. Also, you're iron is a little low. You should probably take vitamins. It's from all that thinking and not eating."  
    "That's bad for you, Sherlock."  
    A throat cleared.  
    Sherlock's eyes flicked to the side. "Yes, John?"  
    "What is happening? Molly has been attacked and we're sitting here... doing... what ever it is the two of you are doing."  
    "I'm fine, really," Molly said.  
    "No you're not. This entire situation is insane. I'm calling Lestrad."  
Sherlock was pushed out of the way and nearly fell. He grabbed the middle slab, making it roll a little forward. Moriarty had taken John's phone away. John swung at him and he grabbed his arm. He spun him around and pushed him in Sherlock.  
    They both fell, Molly gasped and cowered to the side. Moriarty was now standing beside her. His attention was only on them though. He said, "I told you, vampire."  
    Sherlock and John used each other to get to their feet. They were both breathing hard. Silence stretched out. Sherlock said, "If you really are a vampire, and I still don't believe it, but if you are, then why are you still here?"  
    "To kill us," John said.  
    Moriarty snorted. "If I wanted to kill you I'd of already done it."  
    "He also could've killed me," Molly said. Her eyes immediately widened and she covered her mouth.  
    "Taken up for me now, darling," Moriarty said. She had gone stiff. He smiled endearingly at her.  
    "Leave her out of this," John said.  
    He looked at him and his smile melted, like he was sorry for making her uncomfortable. Sherlock blinked rapidly. "Why are you acting this way, repressing," he said.  
    "Repressing, me? Please." That smile was back. "So, where do we go from here, boys? I'm done playing."  
    "I need help. As you know, I've recently become a vampire and I can't... I need blood, but I can't..." He growled and turned away.  
    With raised eyebrows John looked at Sherlock, whose expression was less expressive. They were both thinking: What the hell is going on? They looked back and Moriarty was angrily talking to himself. He crossed his hands and flicked them out, like he was cutting himself off. Facing them, looking dramatically bemused, he said, "No more of that."  
    He studied Sherlock's expression and his own went from bemused to pleased. He said, "You're curios... about the fangs, I mean. You don't think they're real, so do it... check my orifice."  
    John made a face, because Moriarty was being, well, gross, but more suggestive than usual. The sound of Sherlock's moving shoe on the floor made him look at him. Looking prepared to fight, he watched him go to Moriarty and stop. Sherlock is tall, so he had to move over to see. Moriarty wiggled the fingers on one hand, prompting Sherlock to give him one of his.  
    "What if he tries to bite your finger off," John said quickly.  
    "Ew, don't be gross," Moriarty said.  
    "Me, gross? Molly said you drank her blood and you're calling me gross."  
    He looked unhappy at his words. His attention went back to Sherlock and he said, "Come on. You want to see up-close, so I'm letting you. It's not often I let people touch me, much less my mouth."  
    Standing tall, chin raised, with arms crossed behind his back, Sherlock looked every bit the emotional detached man he proclaimed to be. John watched him give Moriarty his hand. He arranged his fingers to grip his jaw, then he opened his mouth to reveal his top set of teeth. There was a stalled second and then Sherlock's chin raised a little higher. He let go of his jaw and took a step back.  
    Moriarty's head adjust to normal height and a rivulet of blood ran over his bottom lip. It dripped off and he caught it. "Like I said, vampire," he said around the rest of the blood in his mouth. More of it dripped in to his hand. He went to the large basin sink and washed his hands.  
    As he swished water around his mouth, Sherlock said, "You had retractable teeth implanted?"  
    Moriarty spit the water out and let out a 'Ha'. He faced him and said, "No. Something like that could malfunction and destroy my jaw... or end up in my eyes... or worse, my brain. Besides, I'm not even sure something like that exists." Smiling, he dried his hands on his pants. The blue Scrubs became darker where water was left behind.  
    "Then how-"  
    "Oh, come on. Your repetitiveness is starting to bore me. What is it you always say? When you've eliminated the impossible, what ever remains, however improbable, must be the truth." Walking towards him he said, "Any other questions?"  
    "Concerns? Observations that need to be made? Would you like me to break your arm? How about your leg?" He looked at John and said, "What about his?"  
    John's head tilted in way that meant he was nervous, but prepared to fight if he had to. Moriarty smiled and it grew as Sherlock stepped in front of him. Sherlock said, "Leave him out of this."

**|**

    "So, what do you think," Sherlock said. They were outside getting fresh air - they'd convinced a reluctant Molly to go home early. Why she'd been resistant was a mystery.  
    John exhaled angry breaths from his nose and faced him. "You want to know what I think," he said while tapping his index finger to his chest. He pointed to the hospital and said, "I still think he's off his rocker. That's what I think, and pore Molly-"  
    He pushed his palms down and took in a deep breath. "I want to kill him. I do."  
Sherlock's expression had remained neutral. The corners of his lips twitched like he'd repressed a smile. "And," he said.  
    "And? And? And I don't know what. You didn't feel the strength he has, and what about the fangs. You watched them..." He waved his hand around. "...come... out...?"  
    "And afterwards blood poured from his gums. Did that really happen? How could he fake that? This entire thing is insane. I think we should call Mycroft."  
He reached in to his pocket and growled. "Damn it. He still has my phone. Let me use yours." Sherlock's expression made him scowl.  
    "Seriously, this again? This is a situation we're not equipped to deal with. We have to call him. What if he hurts someone else? We should've already called him."  
Sherlock groaned and said, "I know we should, but... what do you think the government will do with a vampire? What do they always do when they discover a new power?"  
    John hesitated. "Weaponize it," he said dejectedly.  
    "Exactly."  
    "So, what, we're going to take him under our wing, is that it? He's a Psychopath... that may or may not actually be a vampire... and he's already attacked one innocent person. And exactly what does he need our help for?"  
Sherlock had that look in his eyes - the one he got when he was beyond intrigued with something. Akin to obsession and it did not bode well. "John, Moriarty is still here. He didn't kill Molly, and technically when he took your phone he didn't attack you either."  
    John's eyes had widened.  
    "And he's asking for help, and he seems completely out of his element. There's something going on with him that he's not happy with. I have a theory."  
    "A theory? You have a theory? You have officially lost it." He turned away from him, took a few deep-deep breaths, ran his fingers through his hair and faced him again. "Let's here it."  
    "From my observation, he can attack people, possibly even kill them, but not by his own choosing. His need for blood, and that's going on the theory he's actually a vampire, is like the human's self preservation, that clawing need to survive. Except it's literally his body that takes control to keep itself alive. Him, himself, Moriarty, he is furious that he can't kill someone, because..." He smirked.  
"...because, as a vampire, his emotions are heightened. Psychopaths can't feel real emotion. It's like it's behind a wall and even if they want to they can't access it's entirety. Which leads to violence, boredom, manipulation, etc., etc. The second party of my theory is that vampires are sensitive creatures, the constant regeneration of cells at such a high level has crushed that wall, so he now has a conscience."  
    "His emotions aren't just alive, John, but heightened."  
    John sighed, because this was the moment where Sherlock's point was obvious, but only to himself. He said, "Can you repeat that in lamens terms, please?"  
    Sherlock was thrumming with excited energy, so his usual frustration at not being understood wasn't present. "It means that like a normal functional human being-"  
    "The boring ones."  
    "-Exactly."  
    John rolled his eyes.  
    Sherlock continued. "He has a conscience. He feels real joy, sadness, and most importantly guilt. If he tries to hurt someone or kill them he'll have to fight his conscience to do it. I'm not saying he can't kill, but it'll be as hard as a woman who has to kill a burglar to save herself."  
    "I'm not hearing the good part, here."  
    "He needs our help, because he's desperate. We're good people, so... minimally trust worthy, and I'm me. He knows I'm intrigued. And he's battling with himself. If he can't kill people, then how is he going to get blood?" Sherlock had grabbed his shoulders and was one step away from shaking him.  
    John pushed his hands away and said, "I didn't stop him from attacking Molly."  
Sherlock sighed and said, "And we've already covered this. He didn't kill her... Actually, I don't know why he didn't. He needed blood immediately. If he is a vampire and it was his first feeding, then how did he stop himself?"  
    "Maybe his emotions are more heightened than I thought." His eyes unfocused and John rolled his own. Here he went. Lost to the world as he analyzed everything he'd deduced.

**|**

    The Morgue was empty.  
    "Damn it," John yelled.  
    Sherlock walked slowly to the Slab Moriarty had been sitting on. John's phone lay face-up. He awoke the screen and took in a deep breath.  
    "I knew something like this was going to happen," he heard John say.  
    "John?"  
    "We should've called Mycroft why we had the chance."  
    "John-"  
    "What," he said spinning to face him.  
    "Moriarty left a message. Seems he heard our conversation and agrees with my thoughts on turning him over to the government."  
    John grabbed his phone from him and read it:  
    "Sorry I couldn't stick around, but you and I both know they can't their hands on me. Besides my new 'conscience' I have a few theories of my own. Besides, I'm thirsty again. Bye. -JM"  
    With up stretched arms he said, "Great. Just what we need. A Psychotic vampire on the loose and no way to stop him, and two of the greatest minds in the world agree we can't call the government. We need the government. How exactly are we supposed to deal with this situation?"  
    He faltered as Sherlock's smile. "What?"  
    "I'm not wrong, John. He can't kill someone. And he's struggling with that fact. He's determined to try and figure a way around it. If he does have a conscience, then any way he can come up with..."  
    Smirking, he shook his head. "...his conscience won't let him. It'll eat him up. He's going to call."  
    "Call who, you?"  
    "Yes. It's only a matter of time. Besides, he isn't careless enough to just go around biting people. I'm sure there are some limitations to his abilities."  
    "Like what?"  
    "I can't be sure, for obvious reason, but I'm almost positive he can't Mesmer people in to letting him bite them and make them forget about it."  
    John ruffled the back of his hair and said, "But, if he really is a vampire, it means he did die and come back. He arose from the dead. That's something impossible-"  
    "Improbable, not impossible," Sherlock said.  
    "Like I was saying, if he can do something like that then we can't be sure what he's capable of."  
    "True. Regardless, it's only a matter of time."  
    "How can you be sure?" The look he gave him said: I'm Sherlock, duh.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had a blast writing this. I hope you enjoyed it. ^^


	3. 3

**Chapter Three**

    Moriarty came out of a nurses station, dressed in a hip length white coat over Scrubs. He'd also stolen too big shoes from a locker. Dear Sherlock, clever Sherlock, would've assumed he'd used his vampire speed to leave the hospital, and he would have - if it hadn't quit working. He patted his pockets and felt a lump - a face mask. Putting it on, he turned a corner.  
    If the size and elegant decor didn't let you know the hospital was rolling in money, the mere state of the elevators would have. Polished silver gleamed in the light. He took one of two down. Exiting the front of the hospital was out of the question, obviously. He needed to steal a car.  
    The back parking lot was less kempt and had no security. Such a disappointment, the biggest mistake, and without a doubt, the weakness in a fortress meant to protect. Normal people were stupid on the regular, but this- He used his elbow to break the drivers window of an outdated yellow car. He unlocked the door and swiped the glass out of the seat.  
    Fate seemed to favor him, because not only did he hot-wire the car in record time, but he found dark shades in the glove compartment. His dilated eyes screamed their thanks as he backed out.

**|**

    The next day John escorted Molly to the Morgue.  
    "You really didn't have to do this. Moriarty's gone," she said.  
    John held one of the metal doors for her. He nodded as she passed. She smiled and looked down. "I makes me feel better to see it for myself. I don't plan on letting anything else like that happen to you," he said.  
    Putting on her lab-coat she said, "Well, that's sweet of you. Um, where's Sherlock, today? Immersed in a Case, I presume."  
    "Honestly, I'm not sure. I crashed yesterday and barely woke up this morning. Life with Sherlock can be trying, at times. He's like a vampire, never sleeps." His shoulders straightened and he looked away. "Sorry."  
    She gave an awkward laugh and said, "Well, it's just a phrase. Besides he isn't the one who bit me, now is he?"  
    "No. Although, I'm worried about him. You know how is. Especially where Moriarty's concerned."  
    Looking dejected, she said, "Is he really that bad?"  
    "Obsessed to the point of... Well, you saw them yesterday. All kinds of... awkward... ness. Honestly, I felt like telling them to get a room."  
    She blinked rapidly and looked down, embarrassed.  
    John cleared his throat and stood up straight. "Yes, well, I'd better be off. Would you like any coffee or anything before I leave?"  
    She giggled. "No no. Thank you, though."  
    He nodded and went home. The Sitting Room was a swirl of organized chaos. It would've been typical if the books hadn't been based on Vampires. Sherlock had a large stack of unlined paper beside him, notes, and he was adding to it. He appeared to be writing on a sketch-pad.  
    "Why not use note-book paper?"  
    "Not enough space."  
    John blinked, surprised he'd responded.  
    "A year, and not a whisper of Moriarty," Sherlock said.  
    John's eyes widened. Sherlock, while researching, was actually aware of his surroundings. That was a first. "And now he's stalled by his supposed bought of conscience."  
    "It's not bought, John, and yes, it's unfortunate."  
    "Sherlock."  
    Sherlock looked up from the page he was reading. "What, not good?"  
    "No. He's killed innocent people. A conscience is exactly what he needs. Maybe he'll finally understand how the normal people feel."  
    "Yes..." He resumed reading.  
    John's eyes widened. "How can that possibly make you more interested in him? He's a monster, minus the supposed vampire part. I thought you didn't believe in vampires. What's all this, then?"  
    "I don't, but it's doesn't hurt to be prepared."  
    "So, you're strongly entertaining the idea," he asked carefully.  
    Sherlock shook his pen and threw it in to the kitchen. There was a smack and then the sound of plastic sliding on hard floor. He dug through his notes and brought a new one out.  
    "How many pens have you gone through?"  
    "Lost count."  
    "Right then. So, you're entertaining the idea that Moriarty's a vampire?"  
    He huffed. "It's not an idea. I'm going off of questionable facts. I need more data. There's always fact in fiction."  
    "If vampires are real, do you plan on combating them with unreliable data?"  
    Sherlock said, "No, obviously. Moriarty doesn't want me dead- well, not yet. Right now, he needs me." He looked at him. "And why do you keep saying vampires and them?"  
    "Why not vampire and him? As far as we know there's only one. I mean, if Moriarty exists, if he is a vampire, then others are out there, but-"  
    John sighed. "I was speaking figuratively."  
    His eyes narrowed, then went back to the book.  
    "Right. I'm going to my room, now." No response. "Of course," he whispered. He looked at the clutter of books and then at Sherlock.  
    A smirk teased his mouth. "This research thing, though, it's good." No response. He grinned and went to his room.  
    His amusement died when he closed the door.  
    "Like attracts like," he whispered. He opened his closet and the sensation of small space made his skin prickle. It'd been years, even since the war, that he'd had to use this: A small, purple velvet bag. The familiar weight was comforting, though. A not so secret weapon if one knew how to use it.  
    He untied the black tassel and tipped a clunky silver necklace out. The silver metal was chain-link and he rubbed his finger-tips over it, re-acquainting himself with the rough texture. Attached to it by purple braided Hemp strings, was a medium sized white quartz stone and a small, empty glass bottle. He needed to refill it. There were other things he needed to get, preparations to make.  
    It was only a matter of time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it took so long. I don't have a computer anymore, so I have to borrow one here and there. I should be getting a job soon, so getting a new one is definitely on my list. I had actually already finished this chapter, but I thought it needed something more. Turns out, it's a fine chapter. It feels smaller than the other ones, but hopefully you'll like the subject matter.
> 
> I'm excited to see where this all goes.. Ok, I've already planned stuff out. It's going to get interesting. Sherlock is too curious for his own good, (for some reason I wanted to write Malfoy instead of Moriarty - I've been reading this awesome Drarry Fic, so my mind is obviously still stuck there), Moriarty is... still a little unstable and over-confident, John is hiding stuff. Mwahahaha! It might take time to update this chapter, but like the others, I'll never drop it.


	4. 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi guys. I'm so happy to be back. I have a laptop again, so expect to see more updates more often. Thank God. No literally, thank him.
> 
> I've been blessed with a decent paying steady job (in town), have a new laptop, my dog is living with me and we're both in a healthy living environment, I started going to church again. I'm saved. Don't think for a second that my being saved will ruin this story. My plans for Sheriarty had always been - they are intellectuals and care more about knowledge than being together together. I also believe and adore the idea of soul mates without the sexual context. 
> 
> I'll tell you more of my ideas for THIS and the future of my other stories in the Ending Notes, so look forward to that. ;) Until then, Enjoy the newest addition to the Metamorphosis Series - Chapter Four of The Awakening.

**Chapter Four**   

    It had been three days since the attack. Molly hadn't thought about it much. Shock can do that.  
    What had been affecting her: Strange dreams. They were a jumble of colors and voices and smells. Even if analyzing them would tell her something, they were still dreams.  
    Friday night had been spent catching up on recorded cable shows. She mostly watched happy things. Regardless, it's possible they could make you have strange dreams. Especially if you watched a lot and had been watching something right before bed. Also, that slice of pizza right before bed probably hadn't helped.  
    After drinking a glass of warm milk, she returned to bed. Better habits needed to be made. She didn't like this foreign feeling that left her exhausted and yearning for... something.  
    Maybe the strange dreams were what had made her crave food before bed. Unhealthy led to unhealthy, and on the cycle went. It was going to stop if she had to write out a monthly menu and stick to it like... well... glue.  
    Her mind still felt jumbled, and as she fell asleep she dropped in to what had been left behind. Indistinguishable colors, voices and scents. So annoying.

**|**

    The kids hand felt like it'd ignite his own. Pointing, Moriarty said, "This way?" He watched the child, who could be no more than four, nod. His chicken fuzz hair bobbed with the movement. The light breeze kept it up.  
    Part of him wanted to pat it, to see if it would stay down. Knowing it to be a lost cause wasn't what stopped him. The sheer absurdity did. He'd been going to meet a contact and - bam - random kid crying for his mommy. Did he care?  
    He thought on it. Crying kid equals useless, equals useless parents, equals a waste of time. So, no.  
    Then what was he doing?  
    While returning the child to it's mother he felt more like himself. No urge to harm her for not having paid enough attention to him arose. She seemed equally distraught mixed with a level of what he assumed to be acceptable happiness at being reunited. Pointless. It had him shaking his head when he found his contact.  
    It had him still thinking about it as he received a new identity packet, as he drove away, as he unlocked a security box containing enough money to live comfortably on, as he settled in to a new place.  
    In three days he'd done nothing but drive, sleep, drive some more (after he'd switched cars - twice - one just hadn't worked for him - no radio). Not to mention the intensifying need for blood. He'd take care of that as soon as he had a full eight hours of uninterrupted sleep. He'd left London three days ago.  
    With it so far away and no one, but Sherlock - and the others - knowing him to be alive, he felt he could sleep peacefully. If his mind would permit full sleep. The last couple of days had been... annoying. He'd only been sleeping, because he'd felt like his body had been half on the verge of going in to hyper drive and half trying to go in to a coma. So - sleep: Annoying.  
    It made no since. Maybe the lack of feeding or drinking, what ever vampires called it, had something to do with it.  
    The first night, he slept in an empty house, on a bed-less floor, and he couldn't have been more pleased.

**|**

    John had searched shops for pure silver. Most of it came as jewelry, which he couldn't afford. Having a silver protection necklace didn't guarantee full safety, or any to his friends. And he couldn't very well melt it down to make a blade, because that would just be stupid.  
    He heard Sherlock thinking aloud: "How would I even find a vampire?" For two days, he'd remained on the floor in the middle of books, which had grown to an alarming rate. Even more alarming, he had threatened to burn all of them, because: "Rubbish, all of it. There's no way that's possible. Even among the impossible. Improbable improbable, not impossible. Come on, Sherlock, think."  
    John had been letting it go, but now he needed to say something. He poked his head in from the kitchen and spoke before he could think about it. "Sherlock." No response, of course. He had seemed more aware of him lately though, even if the signs had been a barely perceptible nod here and a twitch in his direction there.  
    "Sherlock, I know you're curious, but we can't just start searching for vampires. They may not be as nice as..." He laughed. Moriarty wasn't nice. "They may be worse than Moriarty, and have no reason to keep us alive."  
    No response. "If you go searching for them, you're on your own." Yeah right. They both knew he'd never let Sherlock walk in to danger alone, even if there's nothing he could do to help. He'd be there.  
    Some would call him suicidal. He called it loyal. Some didn't understand the notion and they could kiss his-"  
    "John."  
    "Hm?"  
    "You've been acting... odd."  
    He made a face. "How so?"  
    "I'm not sure. You've left a few times, seemed determine upon the exit, and deflated when returning. What are you up to?"  
    John scowled. Why had he chosen now of all times to pay more attention? Also, why hadn't he told him yet? They were entertaining the possibility of vampires being real. "I um... I think there's a strong chance this... vampire thing..."  
    Anger moved like caffeinated heat through him. "...may..." He grit his teeth and stepped in to the room. "This whole supernatural business is the bane of my existence." His mood change made Sherlock look at him.  
    "I went through an ordeal once with a supernatural creature and hateful isn't the word I'd use. She- it- whatever- Succubus- nearly destroyed my life. I had help expelling her from my life." His exhale came out shaky and he ran fingers through his hair. "I can't believe I forgot about it."  
    "After what happened... I feel like I'm in shock all over again. We can't just go searching for these things. Deal with Moriarty. I'm sure he knows enough to point you in the right direction."  
    "Or at least just talk to him, but please be careful. You have no idea the kind of ways these things can mess with you."  
Sherlock remained silent, probably weighing his words. He mostly likely thought of him as being dramatic. The urgency to derail any stupidity when dealing with the supernatural didn't care.  
    "So, you dealt with a Succubus," he said.  
    John felt the urge to scream. Through gritted teeth, he said, "Yes, and they're nothing like what people try to make them out to be. They're parasites. They do every thing they can to keep you under their power. They suck the life out of you and it drives you insane."  
    "Mostly... It's caused by what they make you think and sometimes... what you do. Things you'd never other wise do. I don't want to talk about it."  
    Sherlock had to much emotion on his face as he studied his. "And you say you forgot about it?"  
He involuntary inhaled and his mouth remained open as he nodded. Awkward. In shock. He was. "I don't know how I could forget something like that."  
    "I forgot about it until the morning after Moriarty escaped. I found the necklace- a necklace, that protects. It's made of silver and contains salt, holy water, and silver nitrate. It repels psychic energy. Basically, that's what a Succubus is: A Psychic Vampire."  
    "And I only have one and no way to get any more silver."  
    Sherlock's emotion had gone from concerned to curious. He was back to himself, and as infuriating as it could be, it felt right. "Why would you suddenly remember this and be preparing to defend yourself against her? Do you get the sense that she's coming back?"  
    He shook his head. "I just feel like I need to find silver. Maybe it's old habit."  
    "What exactly do you need it for?"  
    "To make another necklace and two blades. For offense and defense."  
    "Give me an hour."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More About THIS and the Future of My Other Stories:
> 
> I have been researching - a lot - about writing, because getting published and being a writer who makes a living as a full time writer is my dream. In order to get better you have to study. Plus, I'm a nerd and would study for fun - just 'cause.
> 
> Any-who, the main thing I've learned about writing is that each story needs to have a heart. It needs to be written in a way that we can all emotionally connect to it. All characters must have an outer and an inner goal. The stakes must be high and something must be learned (or not), depending on the character. I know people this day who keep on making the same mistake over and over and over... and just don't realize that if they did something different, that something would change. 
> 
> I told you all of that because, well, I like to share things with you and because of this - 
> 
> I've met writers who when asked what they're story is about they've said -  
> (Example: The world has ended and a guy stays inside all the time because he doesn't want to get eaten...) *Crickets
> 
> Does that sound like a good story to you? It doesn't to me. I mean, I like Zombie Stories, but there has to be a reason for them. A Theme: How Humans Cope With Loneliness In A Post Apocalyptic World. (Example: The man decides to try and find other people?) That makes me interested. Tell me more.
> 
> Uh...?
> 
> At first, with this story I had a few ideas and wrote them out. I used to be afraid that I wasn't going to be able to finish a story, because I didn't know what would come next. And as you can see, if you look at all the fics I have up, unless they're one shots, I haven't finished them. None of them. ...I don't think. 
> 
> I will never abandon them though, like I promised from day one. So, because of my research and dedication to my stories, I plan on working out how to finish all of them. I will make sure they have a heart, characters you can connect to. All that.
> 
> My Themes for THIS are: Friendship, Forgiveness, Relationships Without Sex, Adapting To Change, Redemption, What Makes Us Human...
> 
> I don't know if there are more (but I'll figure them out).
> 
> I want to focus on everyone being forced to change, while beautifully still remaining the same. Sherlock will always be Sherlock, and so will John. Moriarty is Moriarty, but he didn't start off as his evil and uncaring psychopathic self. Some psychopaths are made. Molly is good with emotions, as we've seen, and may be good for all of them - friendship wise... or maybe eventually romantically... (still debating that). 
> 
> Ms. Hudson will always be there, and Europe would fall without her ;)
> 
> I just love this story and hope you'll continue to follow along. If not, I wish you smooth sailing and a happy landing, on stories that will make you happy. :D


	5. 5

**Chapter Five**

  
    In the kitchen, John once more ran the bracelet through smoke from not just a Cinnamon incense, but an anointed one. It had double strength against any harm that may come toward the wearer. A dramatic sigh from behind him made him role his eyes. Sherlock didn't believe in this. He honest to God only believed in himself.  
    As far as believing other-wise, he only relied, and only on three people: Molly, Lestrade and him (John - who had earned his respect and explicit trust).  
    Sherlock said, "You honestly think that a bracelet, plated with hemp and amethyst beads, carrying a vial of salted holy water and silver nitrate, can repel a Succubus? A psychic vampire." The last sentence had been emotionless, which meant he'd shut down. He didn't care. His boredom had peaked.  
    "Yes. I know it to be true. I've seen it work." He turned around. Sherlock had also turned around and he stopped him walking away by a sleeve. "Please wear this. In this situation I'm not above begging."  
    Through barred teeth, Sherlock said, "But this is ridiculous. You're not quit convinced of vampires, but a Succubus? And you want me to wear that cheap girly looking jewelry to repel it." He let out a pompous laugh. "I'd sooner die."  
    John snorted. "Girly? It's fashionable, actually. I'm also wearing one, and you wouldn't rather die. You're not above self preservation. Especially where your mind is concerned."  
   He narrowed his eyes.  
    "Yes, your mind. A Succubus can, will drive you truly mad, take you mentally away from reality." He felt himself gulp. Talking about it had awakened muscle memory tension and fear. "Just wear it, please."  
    The emotional change must have convinced him, because he did, and without complaint. Such a great friend.  
    Tomorrow they were going to pick up silver that Sherlock's homeless network had tracked down, and they were going to use the lab at St. Bart's to melt it down and form weapons. Bracelets for Offense, Blades for Defense.

**|**

    Moriarty awoke with a snarl. His head twitched twice to the right. He closed is eyes and shook it. His thoughts were racing. Was it possible to keep Bipolar Disorder as a vampire?  
    It didn't seem likely. But he felt manic - so so sososososososo hyper, agitated, and those racing thoughts. He wanted to claw his brain out. It'd probably grow back. His chuckle - low - repeated on a loop in his brain.  
    "So annoying," he whispered.  
    Blood - he needed blood. He needed-  
    He could feel the open door behind him. Outside: Earthy - Dirt, Wet - Dew on grass, hot in his nose - Humidity that would soon be rain, Hollowness - not as late as it'd first seemed and required more thought.  
    "No no no," he lamented. He needed to sleep this feeling off. His twenty-four hours had become corrupted by his stupid vampire body's need for blood, he thought, and he just needed to sleep it off. If he could get to sleep and wake up on a good note he'd be able to focus. Maybe - this blood thing made things questionable and un... figuroutable.   
    He slammed the door and curled up in front of it. "Sleep sleep sleep sleep."


	6. 6

**Chapter Six**

  
    Thoughts had gone from 'Happy To See You' to 'Alone-so-very-alone'. Paper shriveled up and landed on the floor, caught on fire...  
    Molly groaned as she woke up, the dream still pulling at her: It had been different than the others. She could see detail and even understand things. Not fully, but at all had been enough. "Still dreams," she whispered. It had only been a night, so the healthy sleeping habits hadn't had time to take affect.  
    Plus, she had a headache.  
    After taking Tylenol she used a face towel to pat on cold water. The pin pricks shocked a little of the fog away, and then she went to the living room. She sat in her favorite chair, the reading chair. It had been a birthday present to herself three years ago. Sleek white design, but bulked with enough cushion to make it sleep-able. And sleep she did.

**|**

    In the lab at St. Bart, Sherlock said, "Molly?"  
    She looked up from the assortment of metal pieces. "Yes? And where did you get all of this? What's it for?"  
    "Oh, you know, little of this, little of that. Plus I want to make a dagger... or two."  
    "Why?"  
    He sighed and adjusted his goggles. "Don't you have more important things to do? Like remove brains or something?"  
    "Children," John said. "Could we please just get along?"  
    Molly left.  
    Sherlock watched until the door fully closed, and then he said, "Did you see? Her lips thinned, making them non-existent. It's not a good look. Why is she angry? She's never angry? Well, this angry so early in the morning."  
    "I don't know," John said. "Why don't you go ask?"  
    "I'd prefer not." He cleared his throat and added a block of silver to the machine. After turning it on he said, "I've never done this before. May be interesting. May be dull."  
    "We'll have to see." He became entranced as he watched it be melted.  
    John looked from the humming machine to him and back. "Can't this, like, burn your eyes out of your socket?"  
    "No."  
    He scowled. "Right." Knowing Sherlock wasn't going to be of any... any thing... while he watched, he went to find Molly. He found her in the morgue. Her lifting a box that she'd before needed help with registered as Molly Is Angry And Apparently Gets Adrenaline From It: Proceed With Caution.  
    Hoping it came off as inquiring and not confrontational, he cleared his throat.  
    "No," she immediately said. "No no. I don't want to talk. I'm-" She groaned.  
    "I'm sleep deprived and..." A little laugh left her and it made her sound a little hysterical. "Sherlock, sometimes he... I don't know why I even like him. Besides his helping people bit."  
    That had been unexpected, but not really. John said, "He's... well, you know."  
    "Yes." She turned to look at him. She looked worried. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't said that."  
    "I really am lacking sleep. Every since... well, Moriarty. It's really been affecting me. Shock, trauma maybe. I don't know why."  
    "I've been through worse, hearing about you two getting shot at and Sherlock actually getting shot once. Plus, I work down here."  
    "Molly, it's alright. I understand. And it's nothing like any of that. Maybe you need some time off."  
    "No," she said and it came out a squeak. "I need to keep focused. Otherwise I'd just go insane. Plus, being home, not doing any thing, it'd be so dull." She crossed the room to retrieve a clip board.  
    "Ok," he said, unsure. "I'll just leave you to it, then." When he got back to Sherlock he said, "Molly, just used the word dull."  
    At first it didn't seem like Sherlock heard him. The sound of his voice surprised him, "So?"  
    "So? She talked like you do. Being home is dull. Not having any thing to do, dull. It's weird."  
    "She's a capable human being with a smart mind - well, area oriented - which means no surprise she needs to keep busy.  
    "Sherlock, she watches night time drama's and romantic comedy's. She has teddy bears on her bed. Being a maniacal genius isn't in her cards."  
    Sherlock blinked rapidly and looked at him. "How do you know she has teddy bears on her bed," he asked incredulously.  
    John sighed. "She's talked about it. Not to me, but I over-heard. Girls, some girls, apparently like cute, fuzzy... things."  
    His mouth opened, then slowly closed. He looked weirded out, then unhappy, then uncomfortable, then over it. His attention went back to the machine.

**|**

    Since Moriarty had come to this house, a night and day had passed. He sat on the top stair of a stone stair case. Five steps in all. The gray stone looked black in the early, starless night. And what were the side things called?  
    They were also stone and you could sit on them, or in his case: Stare at them and wonder what they were called.  
    His thoughts were racing, but in the background and much slower. His yard - pore thing - looked neglected. He'd have to take care of that. And what the hell was that? He sat straight, eyes wide, and watched the ugliest cat he'd ever seen cross the walk way.  
    It had long orange fur with dark brown spots - there were bald places on it's behind and the middle of it's tail - and it had a face that looked like you should be afraid it'd eat your... well, face... off.  
    "You, shoo," he said, and then he whined. "I don't like you at all." The cat ignored him and climbed a tree on the other side of the yard. He debated getting a bb gun. Or maybe just a knife.  
    He didn't doubt he could catch it. Killing it seemed like a waste of time, though.  
    Speaking of wasting time: "I need to figure out this blood thing. Vampires pull it off, so what am I missing?"  
    He blinked and looked around. The scene had changed. His dark, empty yard had become a side walk brimming with people. His house had been located some fifteen minutes out of town. It took extra seconds for what had happened to catch up.  
    He'd moved quickly, desperately - inhumanly - fast and had come to town to feed. He'd thought of Molly, of what little he could remember about attacking her. All he remembered was realizing that someone was struggling in his arms, stopping her from falling on instinct, and every thing after that had been clear. He hadn't been present during the bite, so he didn't remember doing it. "This is so frustrating."  
    People were looking at him. Why? He looked at him. Oh. Scrubs, no shoes, brilliant.  
    He searched out a shop and bought a new outfit: faded jeans, fitted, long sleeve shirt, purple, not dressy, thank God, white tennis shoes, looked trim, neat. His OCD loved them. Also, he bought a thin gold watch. It had the Roman Numerals for twelve, three, six, and nine on it. He'd bought it for the color.  
    Next, socks.  
    He'd refused to change until he'd gone to another store for hair gel and a comb. Fixed up, he left. The Scrubs he disposed of in a waste basket outside. He focused on people. Ordinary, boring people.  
    All the same.  
    Their warmth caressed his skin, making him want to get closer - but he didn't. He wouldn't. Disgusting, all of them. He hated them. He considered doing the world a favor and biting a woman wearing too much perfume.  
    He fake wheezed.  
    She sat at a table with two girl friends. They ate, laughed, drank. He found himself focusing more on their food and drink. Delicate moisture - cooked perfect green beans, breaded meat, butter -rolls, rice- he groaned. A clink on a glass startled him and he heard laughter.  
    Their happiness made him feel funny, and he fought to shut down.  
    Frustrated and sad, he kept walking. "What is wrong with me," he mumbled. "I could have killed the universe a few days ago, and now?" He hated it all - the ground, the people, his shoes, himself, his mind. "Impulse control," he chanted.  
    Oh, how he needed to keep focused. Reacting stupidly wasn't the way to start this.  
    No no no. He liked his shoes. They were perfect: thick, but light, clean white, and perfect. Yes yes.  
    Ok. He could do this. There had to be a bloody vampire around here somewhere. He just had to find it. It wasn't smart to go looking for a fanged beast with super strength and speed, but he'd dealt with one while being human.  
    He could do it again and now with less difficulty, because he had become a fanged beast with super strength and speed. A slow, deep in take or air- and he shot forward. Things should have been a blur, but his eyes kept up. The hair on his body didn't move - like, the air didn't impede him, but he cut through it. He laughed and kept moving.  
    Through stores, restaurants - any place with activity. Those were a bust. What, vampires didn't come around people at all? Ridiculous. It didn't make since for them to just stay hid.  
    He still felt like himself... more or less, so they also had to be who they were when human, to a point. Unless there were a secret society of vampire that forced the lesser's to become a certain way or act a certain way, but he doubted that to. It just didn't make since. This felt like a shot in the dark... or something like that. And he was getting bored.  
    And thirsty.  
    He bought a long water and uncapped it. It didn't hit the spot blood did, but it helped.  
    He also bought a new cell phone, and after sending a text he leaped an outside wall and sat on it. "Come out come out where ever you are," he sing-songed.


	7. 7

**Chapter Seven**

  
    Sherlock lay on his couch- his new... couch. "Thank you for ruining my couch," he texted. He looked around for John (Barely moved his eyes). Where had he gone this time? He put his hands together, holding the cellphone, and touched the tips of the index fingers to his lips.  
    Sighing, he closed his eyes. The silence was- Bleep. He'd received a text. One side of his mouth curled. Moriarty had texted him while he'd been at the lab.  
    It hadn't been a call, but still - contact. He'd known it'd happen.  
    The message: "Where do you find a vampire on a dark and stormy night?"  
    It hadn't been dark 'nor stormy. Maybe he'd meant it as a joke? Probably not. But Contact.  
    New Message(s): 1) "That couch had been hideous. I regret nothing." 2) "I've even searched alley ways. Nothing."  
    Hateful. And he'd found no trace of vampires, at all. He had just become a vampire and didn't know much about them, so maybe he had found a trace and just didn't know it. Besides a bloodless body, what constituted as a sign of a vampire? No wonder he couldn't find any thing.  
    He replied: "As I've said, I'm of no use in this particular instance. I'm human. I'm lacking data. I can't help you."  
    The new reply: XP  
    Scowling, Sherlock said, "How very... ordinary." He texted: "I'm starting to lose hope for you."  
    The reply: "That's just rude."  
    "I'm rude."  
    Moriarty must have been using voice to text, because he wouldn't just send 'I'. He must have been distracted, and after three seconds the text automatically sent, "I..."  
    Sherlock frowned. "...You?" No reply. He sighed and said, "Great." He closed his eyes.  
    Bleep. He opened them and frowned.  
    The new text: "Grave Yard."  
    "Rubbish," he texted. "Why would vampires be in a grave yard? You didn't rise from a grave like a Hollywood movie."  
    Reply: "Doesn't mean they never go there."  
    "It's a shot in the dark."  
    "It's worked before."  
    "True," he said. He also texted it and, "Tell me how it goes?"  
    "Of course."  
    He didn't hold hope. It didn't seem logical for vampires to hang out in cemeteries. Just because they rose from the dead, it didn't mean that they felt a kinship with them. That would mean an entire species would be identical.  
    He reiterated: Not logical.  
    He let out a small growl. "Not now, John." He kept thinking about him. Was it guilt he felt at keeping the Moriarty-made-contact-thing a secret? It wasn't like he never planned to tell him.  
    Ms. Hudson popped her head in from the kitchen.  
    "What are you doing up here," he demanded.  
    She'd fixed her hair, had lipstick on- Date, soon, running short on time. "I heard you say John. I figured he'd come home."  
    "Home? Where did he go?"  
    "Oh, I don't know. Just said he was going out." She came in to the room. "Did you two fight again?"  
    "No."  
    "Well, he'll forgive you. If you apologize. Maybe, if not. He really does have a sweet spot for you."  
    "Ms. Hudson, I've repeatedly told you , we're not together. And we didn't fight. Now go away. I'm busy."  
    Her excitement grew. "Oh, the new couch came in? I like it. A bit more cushion, pretty blue. Who picked it out?"  
    "It's not pretty. It's masculine, dark blue. Come on."  
    "Well, I like it."  
    He closed his eyes. "Thanks."  
    Smiling, she left.  
    The cellphone bleeped. This time he received a picture message. A grave yard, dark, empty. Exactly what he'd expected. Nothing. "Told you so," he texted.  
    The reply: "XP."  
    He just couldn't. He turned it off.

**|**

    John ate in a diner. He sat at the bar, near the T.V, half watching it, half zoned out. So he had a mix of night time police drama, memories of not begun daggers, the sound of clinking spoons around him. He groaned and lay his fork and butter knife to either side. Is this what it felt like for a repressed memory to come back?  
    It hadn't been like this when he'd been shot in the military. He'd had to go through the trauma and let the memory of what had happened come back to him. But it hadn't hurt. This felt like hammers to the inside of his skull. His spotty vision made his half eaten eggs covered in syrup, something he as a doctor should know better than to eat, appear worse.  
    He pushed it away and lay his head on his arms. Once his vision cleared he stood. His vision swam and he half considered getting a Cat Scan. That'd be an interested conversation: "And why do you think you need a Cat Scan?"  
    "Well, I think trauma from being preyed on by a Succubus made me repress memories and-"  
    And that's where it double failed, because not only would she think him off his rocker, but literally nothing else could be added to it.  
    He hadn't told Sherlock that he didn't remember any thing besides being preyed on by a Succubus. He had remnant unpleasant feelings, and those were what he didn't want to think about or talk about. What memories lay in store scared him.      Had he done something so horrible as to hide it away for forever? Only time would tell.  
    And Sherlock would be of absolutely no help at all, because Feelings. He remembered his sister, Harry, but if it had been so bad, if she also remembered things, what then? Nothing good ever came from contacting her. Not to mention that when he thought of her he felt embarrassment and shame.  
    What in God's name had he done?  
    Is this the thing that had caused a rift between them? He always said they had never got on, but there had been a small window where they'd at least acted like family.  
    He went for a walk.

**|**

    The next day Molly gave Sherlock the lab key, and without saying a word she walked away. She'd been thinking. Why did Sherlock get to run over her? No one else got away with less. What about him made her lose all sense?  
    After three hours doing rounds upstairs and six in the morgue, she showered and left. Good bed-time habits included better foods. If she only bought good food and decided to snack, then it wouldn't affect her. Or it may. She wasn't a dietitian, but a slice of apple didn't seem like it'd hurt - It wasn't grease and meat.  
    "Also, vitamins." She put a multi one in the arm basket. Also, new paper for her planner - a medium aqua one with a gold clamp. It had replaced her purse long ago, because it had card holders and a change pouch. She kept lipstick and a tiny bottle of perfume in her lab-coat, so problem solved.  
    Two half gallon sparkling waters: Cucumber and Mint (Never tried), and Kiwi and Grape (Long time favorite). Any thing else?  Her eyes widened at a thought: PM's. She like Extra Strength, Rapid Release, Tylenol PM's. They worked faster. She only took one at a time, otherwise she'd wake up too late and be tired the rest of the day.  
    The important thing: No dreams.  
    At home, she looked forward to sitting in front of the television and having a refresher dinner. She giggled at the idea of naming such a thing. An apple and drinking from a giant water bottle didn't make a meal. The enjoyment bubbled like the sparkling water. It had to be kept alive as long as possible, so she made the refresher dinner in to something fun.  
    She used her best glass dish for caramel dip, put half of the Kiwi and Grape water in a small see-through tea pot (something she'd bought at a yard sell and had never used), using a mini wine glass to drink from. Also, sliced half the apple perfectly and instead of dipping it, she used a long tea spoon. To top it off, she used her grandmother's small silver serving tray. Instead of watching her shows from her favorite chair, she sat on the carpet - the white carpet - and smiling, ate and poured and drank away. Some would think alcohol would make this better, but no.  
    She wanted to remember how happy she felt, and the sense of accomplishment. No one had been there to tell her this wasn't done. Eating caramel dip on a carpet? Drinking water from a wine glass? Using a serving tray instead of sitting at a table, or using it to take food to someone sick in bed (or an after morning woo-woo event).  
    The horror.  
    She giggled. Her grandmother used to have a way with words.


	8. 8

  **Chapter Eight**

    Molly's blanket is a comforting warm weight as she wakes, her pillow is also warm -  and cushy.  She breaths in through her nose and happily hums.  Sleeping pills did wonders.  After using the restroom she looked at her reflection and smiled.  Even her complexion looked good.  Stretching her arms over her head she went to the kitchen to make breakfast:  A fresh fruit and non-dairy yogurt smoothie with almonds.  
      After putting it in a special bought glass bottle with a lid, she left it in the refrigerator and got ready for work.  She had a half day and looked forward to the time off.  As she took a shower she decided to use it shopping.  What did she need?  Body-wash, tooth paste, more make-up-  
    "Yes," she said on an exhale, and then she blinked.  Staring at the rag she wondered where the enthusiasm for make-up had come from?  It'd been a long time, last Christmas... maybe.  She'd like to say, "But I don't have time," but it'd be a lie.  There were ways:  Setting her alarm to get up earlier, get used to doing it, so she could be fast again.  
    She could even do it when she got to work, because she spent a lot of time in the lab between Post-Mortems.  
    "No," she said.  "No more excuses."  She rinsed and dried off, got dressed in a purple button-up that tastefully defined her body, light tan slacks, and white flat heels.  After blow drying her hair and putting on the little make-up she did have:  Mascara, black eye-liner...  She went with her unused liquid one, which took her two tries to get it right, and translucent coral lip-gloss.  She'd even blown dry her hair and used bobby-pins to allow the thick length to hang.  
    She'd opened the front door before she considered jewelry:  A thin gold necklace with a flat heart, square pink jewel earrings, and a bracelet made of various size, pink marble pieces.  
    Smoothie in hand, feeling confident, she went to her car.  She put the smoothie in the cup-holder and drove to work.  
    At seven in the morning the hospital lacked people in the halls.  The long sleeves kept her warm, but she couldn't wait to put on her lab coat.  She took the elevator down.  The light flooded the room, glinting off the silver body freezers.  Wearing the pristine white lab-coat, which marked the success of her career, she put on gloves.   She used a spray bottle to sanitize the slabs, then used a different sanitizer to soak the autopsy tools in a tall plastic tube.  
    Sherlock arrived at eight on the dot, looking as determined as ever.  She'd been doing more thinking and had come to a conclusion.  Hesitantly she said his name.  
    Holding the upstairs lab key he said, "Hm?"  
    "I have a half day today and you need to be out of the lab at two o'clock.  I have plans."  
    He said, "You don't get off until four."  
    Her cheeks heated and she started to sweat.  Why did he pay attention to every thing?  "I want to focus the last couple of hours and... also... just give me the key back before you leave.  If..."  She looked down and pressed her lips together.  
    And then she said,"When you take the key home it's impossible for me to get in the upstairs lab, and then I can't do my work... and I could even get in trouble."  She looked at him and his lack of reaction made her feel less self-conscious.  "Well?"  
  He inhaled and on the exhale: "Right.  Until then."  He spun on his heels and left, leaving the heavy double doors to close.  
    She blinked rapidly.  Her cheeks were still heated, but she didn't feel self-conscious.  Accomplishment made her shiver.  This day had begun on a great note and it'd become perfect.  She'd stood up to Sherlock, and he'd... not said any thing rude... and now she could relax.  
    And relax she did.  Sherlock returned the key at exactly two o'clock - even said so - and she spent the next two hours catching up on paper work.  It wasn't until off-time when it soured.  Her car wouldn't start, so she had call a tow truck to take it to a repair place.  Not letting a tiny thing like a malfunctioning car stop her, she used a taxi to go shopping.  
  
|  
  
    Humid air didn't bother Moriarty the way it used to and he'd come to appreciate the night.  He could pull off dilated pupils as having been in the dark for too long and lights didn't bother his eyes like the sun.  Chewing gum, he stood outside a bar.  He eyed a group of giggling females in bright colored dresses:  "Besties," he said, and then grinned.  They smelled a mix of cotton candy, floral, bubble-gum, and the last:  Chemical.  He'd come to recognize it as a strong perfume.  
    Maybe the expensive kind.  He wrinkled his nose, and then spit the gum out.  A couple gave him a funny look.  He'd bought more clothes, including the white baseball cap he adjusted.  Tonight, he planned on drinking blood.  
    Not them though.  That it needed to be consensual didn't bother him.  Even if he didn't remember the time with Molly, being able to put your mouth on a neck meant a level of trust.  And he'd need to gain it in order to keep a low profile.   
    Also, the intimate level of close proximity:  He didn't like being touched by people he'd known for years - much less, strangers.  
   His heart pinged and he rubbed it, reminding him that even if he'd enjoyed doing intimate things without consent, he couldn't.  He soothed his gums with his tongue.  The fangs reacted to strong emotion, so rather happy, sad, mad, annoyed - bored - they'd try to come out.  
    He checked his watch:  Eleven o'clock.  He'd assess the crowd and go from there.  On the way to the door he put his hands in his coat pockets.  The door moved out and he stepped to the side.  The smell of smoke and spilled alcohol came with an exiting couple.  
He wrinkled his nose and leaned against the wall.  "Why do I have to smell every thing?"  His gag reflex strained.  If he threw up all that'd come out would be water and remaining Molly blood, and that's assuming any remained.  Turning his head away from the door he inhaled fresh air, and then did it again.  
    Scowling, he went in.  Smoke curled thickly above him and it smelled piss-like - turned over beer.  A cluster of tall tables and booths took up the left wall, the glossed wooden bar to the right.  Behind him a sad excuse for a Karaoke stage.  The bar went around the back wall, where two pool tables were set up.  
    He stopped at a coin game.  Silver coins covered the bottom, which lay still, waiting for someone to add another coin.  He did, a quarter, and it activated it.  His coin made it possible for others to be pushed off, and smiling he pocketed two dollar and twenty cents.  Not a bad profit from a quarter.  
   Amused, he turned around.  The pool tables were taken up by separate groups.  One:  Two guys who seemed to only be passing the time.  The second:  Two couples who were in flirt mode.  The guys were holding their liquor well, one of them the alcohol had his skin turned red - no, he drank on a daily basis - alcoholic.  
    One woman wore a light pink dress - shoulders and back revealed, and the length showed off long freshly shaven legs.  The light brought out her caramel skin and natural black hair:  Exotic.  Probably not foreign, but attractive that way non-the-less.  And she knew it.  Nope, not her.  
    She thought too highly of herself and he wasn't stupid enough to deal with a group looking to hook up.  He needed some thing that distanced themselves from a crowd.  The chances of that in this little town were slim to none.  Every one knew every one and he rolled his eyes.  Clearly his brain wasn't up to speed.  
    This would be a problem.  The bar closed at two, which meant he would wait.  Either that or scourer the streets, which he'd done minimally.  He may not have felt guilt in a long time, but he recognized it when he did.  Getting passed it to feed from the unsuspecting continued to evade him.  
    He rubbed his heart again.  Maybe if just ignored it and done it any way he'd eventually adjust.  The same way he'd done over the years as his underground career flourished, but then he'd have to get over the whole - strangers are touching me thing.  He mumbled, "Stranger danger, stranger danger," and snickered.  He leaned against the machine with crossed arms.  
    The pool balls clicked together or clunked against the pool table sides.  A memory of the ugly cat with the eat your face expression flashed through his mind, Sherlock silence buzzed around it, Molly holding her gauze covered shoulder- John swinging at him- busted glass- cemetery- strong perfume- smoke gagging him.  A laugh startled and his thoughts snapped off.  He looked around wide-eyed, trying to decipher who it came from.  Four women milled out of the bathroom.  
    They were amused - what's said in the bathroom stays in the bathroom.  He'd heard the laugh through the door.  Women - they talked about every thing, and bathrooms were used as sanctuaries.  He understood, sort of:  Closed in space, only females to talk to, and... it ignited strangers to divulge in details of their personal life.  "Ding," he said.  
    "Light-bulb."  He went outside, around the building, and jumped to the roof.  He lay on the tin over the bathroom.  Eventually, he'd hear something that would lead him in a direction.  His eyes felt heavy, his body cold, and he felt... off... like Molly's blood had raised him up, and now he'd lowered.  
    If he didn't feed soon he feared how far he'd go.  Could he die from lack of feeding?  He hoped time wouldn't tell.  If this didn't work he had a Plan C.  Pay desperate people for blood donations, although then he'd have to make sure they were clean.  So he'd need to set up a sterile medical space.  
    He had a semblance of respect when it came to people.  A dirty space risked infection, and would scare half of them off.  If he payed good and got enough donors they'd keep coming back.  He'd have enough to keep them from becoming anemic.  He'd do that if it came to it, but he wanted to try the old fashion way - "I vill drink your blood."  The tin dug in to his back, but he barely felt it.  If he wanted he could lean hard enough to dent it.  
  
|  
  
    From his chair, John glanced at Sherlock on his laptop.  He'd been going through sites and forums, trying to find a legitimate source on the Supernatural.  So far he'd yelled, "Fakes, and a useless waste of time", and just yelled - he assumed to release his frustration from not knowing something.  He looked at his phone.  It been an hour and he couldn't dial his sister's number.  
    The reason, a mix of not having done it in a while and the fear of what he'd find out - or wouldn't.  It warred in his mind like a stalking snake and ice cold water being dumped on his head.  Eventually, he'd have to just do it, because he needed to know.  He put the phone on one of three thick books on the side table.  Sherlock's phone started ringing and he ignored it.  
    John sighed and went to the kitchen.  He made tea and looked for food.  As usual the refrigerator and cabinets were empty.  After drinking the tea he left a note in his chair that he'd gone shopping.  He'd nearly paid out when his phone rang.  The caller I.D. said Unlisted.  
    Curious he answered.  The voice he heard made his blood boil:  Moriarty.  The speed he spoke cut him off and he caught enough that he stood straight.  "Slow down," he commanded.  "What about Molly?"  
    He got a dangerous sentence:  "Molly's in danger - go find her now."  Forgetting his groceries he hailed a cab and headed to her apartment.  He tried her cell and got no answer.  He tried her cell - same.  Sherlock didn't answer either so he left him a message:  "You twat, pick up your damn phone."  
    "Molly's in trouble.  Called the hospital and her cell, and she's not answering.  Answer the damn phone."  After a minute of grid-lock traffic he called Mrs. Hudson.  She answered on the third ring.  
    Excluding Moriarty, he told her the issue and he heard the clunk of her running up the stairs.  A shuffling sound and finally Sherlock answered.  
"John what is it?"  
"Well, you'd know if you ever took the time to answer your bloody phone.  Molly's in danger.  Moriarty called and he's pissed off-"  
"Moriarty called you?  Strange."  
"Can it and get to the hospital.  I'm going to her apartment."  
Sherlock growled and shouted, "I'm already in a cab.  Shut up."  
"Just hurry."  He hung up and demanded the driver speed up.  Traffic had moved, but not by much.  The driver started to speak, but he'd opened the door.  He ran until he came to light traffic, and then he hailed another cab.  
    He got to her apartment and her car wasn't in the drive.  Cold slivered over him.  Sweating with a heart beating painfully fast he ran through the parking lot, up the stairs, and beat on her door.  She didn't answer and he called Sherlock again.  
    Sherlock said, "I'm here, on the way to the lab, exactly what did Moriarty say?"  
    "He said Molly's in danger and to find her now.  She's not answering the door.  God, Sherlock I can't-"  The door opened, a chain clinked, and she peeked out.  "Molly," he said in relief.  
    She pulled back and quickly unlocked the door.  His eyes widened when she came out and hugged him.  "Molly what's wrong?"  She clung to him and he couldn't understand through her tears.  He heard Sherlock's small voice from the phone.  
    "Molly, you're going to have to talk to me."  
    She wrenched back and spoke fast:  "Someone tried to rob me and he pulled a gun on me, and I thought I was going to die, and he tried to take my purse, but I was too strong, and he pointed the gun at my head and-  
    "Whoa whoa whoah," he said.  "What happened?"  
    "I told you already.  He tried to kill me.  I-  I-"  She covered her face and cried.  
    His shoulders felt cold, but his blood still boiled.  He took a deep breath and pulled her to him.  Staring ahead he put the phone to his ear.  "Every thing's... not ok, Sherlock, but Molly's safe."  He sighed in relief.  "I'm going to take her inside and sit with her."  
    "I'll be there soon."  He hung up and John put his phone in his pocket.  
    Molly held on to him until they had to go through the door.  He set her at the kitchen table and kept a hand on her back until she calmed down.  When she did he asked her if she wanted tea.  Her teary face as she nodded made his anger go up ten notches.  
    She'd finished her first cup when Sherlock opened the door.  He looked at her and John watched as he went from assessing to decision made.  His calmness reminded him of a caged calculating animal.  He even pitied the attacker when he found them - not that they'd fair better if he did.  "How is she... besides the obvious," he said.  
    John said angrily, "Said some one tried to rob her.  Said she'd been too strong.  They..."  Not wanting to upset her more, he spoke as calmly as possible.  "They pointed a gun at her head."  
  He nodded and looked at her.  Calmly, he said, "Molly, can you tell us exactly what happened?"    
    Looking at her tea, she said, "I...  He..."  She looked up.  "How did you know?"  
    John looked at Sherlock who raised an eyebrow.  
    "Just tell her," he said.  
    He took at deep breath and looked at her.  "Moriarty called in a panic and told us to get to you, that you were in danger."  
    Her eyes widened and her hands started shaking.  She put the cup down and stood up.  
    Sherlock said, "What is it, Molly?"  
    She shook her head and looked ready to run.  
    "It's was Moriarty wasn't it.  Some thing happened with him when you were attacked.  What?"  
    John quickly looked at him.  What could have happened?  If Moriarty had left town, which was likely, then what?  And he doubted he'd send someone to rob her.  He said, "Sherlock, what are you talking about?"  
    Looking at her, he said, "I've suspected something like this."  
    She looked at him and anger flared in her eyes.  She said, "What... do you mean?"  
    A stretched out silence made John demand.  "Sherlock?"  
    "He bit her, John.  I wondered rather a kind of connection would form.  Naturally I know nothing about any of this, so I couldn't be sure.  So..."  He stepped toward Molly.  When he spoke to her he sounded awed:  "What exactly happened?"  
    "If you tell me I may be able to help in some way."  
    She didn't look convinced, even as he stood in front of her.  He gently touched her hands, which John flinched at.  Even in his most convincing act of comforting he didn't touch.  Even she found it strange, because she looked at their hands quickly, and then his face.  An eyebrow had risen.  
    He emphasized each word:  "What happened?"  
    She swallowed and took a deep breath.  "H-He..."  Her eyes flicked to the metal bread stand.  "He helped me."  
    "How?"  It didn't make since.  He wouldn't have called for help if he'd been there.  
    She shook her head.  "I don't know how to explain it.  I was scared and I started to hand my wallet over... and I just felt this..."  Her eyes widened as she said, "...rage."  Her eyes became unfocused as she replayed the moment.  
    She spoke mono-toned:  "I could see pressure points on the man, like a medical book.  I squeezed my wallet strap and knew I could beat him.  He..."  Her eyes focused.  "I saw the man, he became angry.  I punched him."  She smiled.  "He didn't see that coming."  
    John smirked.  
    "I pulled my wallet and kicked him in the knee.  I... think I broke it."  She looked timid.  "I heard it crack.  I didn't stop."  
      "He tried to grab me, but I moved too fast.  I elbowed him in the back of the head as he fell.  I kicked him in the back and ran.  I got in a cab and came home."  
    John said, "So, where does Moriarty come in to play in all this?"  
    She abruptly said, "He helped me.  It wasn't me doing any of that.  I mean it kind of was, but it wasn't.  I saw him through my eyes.  It's like he could see what I was seeing."  
    "It's like his anger covered mine... and his... brain.  He knew the pressure points.  He knew my legs were stronger than my arms.  He increased my speed.  He made me run.  I saw him... felt him all the way home."  
    "Do you feel him now," Sherlock said.  
    She looked at him.  "No.  It's just me.  I wasn't scared while I was fighting, but now..."  
   John said, "But now the adrenaline is wearing off?"  She nodded as he went to her.  "Lets get you a blanket.  When adrenaline wears off you get cold... and tired."  
    She let him lead her to her room.  
  
|  
  
    Sherlock checked his phone.  When Lestrade would quit calling he'd put it on silent.  He had a missed call from Moriarty.  He called him.  When he answered he said, "She's safe."  
    Angrily, he said, "I know that now.  You should pick up your damn phone-"  
    "How did you know she was in danger?  I assume you called me before she almost got robbed."  
    "I saw it.  Like a flash, a vision.  Some thing like that.  I didn't see any thing else until she was actually getting robbed.  I tried to call you.  You-"  He cursed at him, which he ignored.  "Next time I call, pick up the bloody phone."  
    "I've been told that on multiple occasions tonight.  I'll try to make it a habit of screening whose calling.  So, what now?"  
    Sarcastically, he said, "Oh, I don't know.  I need to feed.  This vision gave me a head-ache and I feel worse than I did before."  He hung up.  
    Sherlock sighed.  So, he still hadn't fed.  That could be a problem.  No way would he not have a back-up plan, most likely paying for donors.  It didn't mean that he wouldn't figure out how to feed directly from people.  
    The text he sent said:  After you're in control again, feed from me.  See if you can."  He sent it and looked up.  
    John led Molly to the seating room and tucked her in to her chair.  He turned the tv on and handed her the remote.  Pointing to the kitchen, he said, "I'll make you some thing to eat.  If you need any thing let me know."  She nodded.  
    Sherlock considered telling him his plan.  He'd be angry.  Oh well.  Moriarty drinking from him would be necessary to understanding a little more about his change.


	9. 9

  **Chapter Nine**

    Moriarty had slept on the floor again.  His swollen, dilated eyes attempted to look around, but even a sliver of light through the black-out curtains felt like daggers.  Temporarily blind, over-heated body aching, he stumbled his way forward.  Hands shaking, he eased the curtains closed.

    Two things on his to-do list:  Get furniture and blood (He needed it now).  His up-ness had dropped significantly - especially from the vision and link he'd shared with Molly.

    "What the hell," he mumbled, and then he leaned his forehead on the wall.  Enjoying the cool on his over-heated body, he opened his eyes.  Yellow spots blocked the bumpy gray paint on the wall.  He blinked and rubbed them.  It didn't help.

    While he drooped there he called a family owned moving company.  Chain companies thought about the bottom line:  Making money.  Family Owned offered quality customer service, because their services were offered as a passion.  Reputation meant every thing, so "Discreet."  Not that he'd need it, because they wouldn't recognize him.  Or they might, but he had all the papers to prove his identity as Chad Williams, thirty-one, retired Literary Professor turned Copy-Writer Entrepreneur.

    His specialty:  Online Marketing.  It'd be cake to build an online reputation under a false name, because it wasn't like his criminal empire hadn't been done the same way. 

 

**|**

 

    John woke up to screaming.  He jumped off the couch and ran toward it.  Molly stood in front of the bathroom mirror in her pajama's and robe.  She heard him and flailed her arms.  In panic he said, "What's wrong, Molly, what's wrong?"

    "They're gone.  I'm going to become a vampire."  She squealed and spun to the mirror.

    It shouldn't be funny, but her being like this made him fight a smile.  He cleared his throat and said, "What do you mean?  You're going to have to talk to me."

    She bent her head and rubbed her neck.  "The bite marks are gone."

    "What?"  As he turned her to face him she kept her neck bared.  He looked it over and sure enough, they were gone.  "But Sherlock didn't say any thing about you becoming a vampire.  He said you and-"

    She "mm'd" to stop him from saying Moriarty's name, and said, "Sherlock said he suspected.  He also said he didn't know any thing about any of this.  He wouldn't know.  If I became a vampire I'd have to bite him in the ass to convince him."

    He stilled and blinked a few time.  Molly had said "ass" and she'd threatened to bite Sherlock in his.  Of course it'd been sarcastic and not a real threat but-  He bent his head and focused.  It didn't work and chuckles became laughter.

    "What," she demanded.  "It's not funny.  I should bite him.  He's... He's... such an arrogant, pompous, bimble-headed, selfish, giant five year old."  She growled and stomped a foot.

    Through laughs, he said, "You're really not helping your case."

    "Shut up, John."  She pushed him away and stomped to the kitchen.

    Only he pulled off giggling and kept his masculinity.  He did it as he followed her.  It took a minute to get it under control, and then he said, "Molly, I don't think you're going to become a vampire.  Don't you think you would've turned by now?  It's been nearly a week.  Moriarty turned in a matter of a few hours after his... annoyingly temporary death."

    She'd started bringing fruits from the refrigerator and putting them on the counter.  He straightened when she took out a giant chopping knife.  It clanked against the counter as she cut a banana with all the frustration the full situation caused.  With each cut she spoke:  "I am so sick-"

    Chop.  "-of being the weak, helpless-"  Chop.  "-one.  I want to-"

    Chop chop chop chop.  "-kick every one's ass."  She put the bananas in a blender, and then she started on strawberries.

    "So," he said.  "Did I do any thing to make you angry?"  He flinched when she spun to face him, knife pointing at him.  She noticed his reaction and her eyes widened.  Quickly, she put it on the counter, and said, "Of course not.  I appreciate all the help you've given me.  I'm sorry if I made you think-"

    He said, "No no.  I can't imagine what you're going through.  I'm so sorry this thing is happening with-"

    She squealed again to keep him from saying Moriarty's name.

    Smiling, he said, "Ok ok.  I'm sorry."  He breathed in through his nose to prepare himself for what he'd have to say next.  "Eventually, though, you're going to have to..."  His blood started to boil.

    "...be around him.  We can't make a plan on how to hand this, if we don't get a grasp of the extent of this... link... you two share."

    Her eyes widened and a shiver went through her.  Timidly, she said, "I... h-have to s-seeee him?  H-He's he's... scary."

    He nodded.  "And dangerous, I know.  But...  there has to be a way to take him out.  I'll just...  I'll figure it out."

    "What about Sherlock," she said.  "He's-"

    "So caught up in him," he said.  "that he can't see straight.  Or maybe he can, but is still... in-trigued... or whatever.  I have total faith that he'll figure something out.  You should see the massive amount of notes he's done."

    "It's ridiculous.  The flat looks like a library exploded without actually burning any thing, and it's all over the place."

    She looked down, and then at the knife.  Picking it up, voice sounding confident, she said, "He's out of his element.  Even I know that-"  Chop chop.  "I can't rely on him to protect me this time."

    "I'm not naive-"  Chop chop chop chop.  "I'll... figure it out myself.  I don't need him-"  Chop chop chop chop chop.

    She roughly dropped the strawberries in the blender.

    John ground his teeth.  This had become even more dangerous, because Molly didn't seem like herself.  He'd need to keep a better eye on her.

 

**|**

 

    Molly made her smoothie and since she'd forgotten her special glass in her car, she had to use a regular glass.  She put it at the bottom, afraid it'd fall off the racks, and then she shooed John out.  He left with advice, "Don't do any thing reckless."  He really worried about her doing something reckless?  Under Sherlock's lead, they did reckless things all the time.

    They enjoyed the rush - she didn't.  At least she had a reason.

    She showered and called out of work.  "Take that Sherlock.  You can't work in the lab without me."  The bag with make-up had been thrown on her bed.  It crinkled as she raised it.

    Translucent foundation, light pink blush,  green eyshadow in three shades, and a Coral lipgloss.  She'd also gotten a hand-held mirror.  It reminded her of the silver ones seen in Fairy Tales.  The handle rounded off at the end, flowers filled the back face, and vines crossed to flare petal-like on top.  Her face was the canvas and the treasure make-up created a masterpiece.

    She imagined yellow fairy magic shimmering on the ends of her fluttering eyelashes, highlighting the flawless three toned green eyeshadow.  Her lips would sparkle pink like stones under a crystal clear ocean, beneath a blazing sun.  Turning her head in poise she admired the canvas.  With determination in her eyes she looked at the drab curtains near her bed.  Those needed to be changed as well.

    Which meant more shopping - robbers be damned.

**Author's Note:**

> (FREE) Support AO3 Community
> 
> Writing is my life and Readers make it possible for me to do it. It's always been my dream to entertain others the way stories kept me entertained in my childhood, and now. Do me a favor...
> 
> Leave KUDOS... Why?
> 
> Because it lets readers cut through the sea of low quality work, and know that "this" is worth reading. Which leads me to the next thing... Leave Comments...
> 
> Because it adds a better way to help readers know what they're getting in to. And on to the last thing, which is just for you...
> 
> Have you ever read a story and wanted to continue it, but lost it in the over-whelming amounts of Bookmarks and Saved For Later links? If you're like me, then yes. And it's frustrating enough to make some cry. So do this simple thing...
> 
> SUBSCRIBE to favorite stories or just my Profile: And you'll be emailed each new chapter, and from my Profile: Any new stories, plus chapter updates. (This will offer for your convenience, a link that will take you directly to each, so you'll lack the hassle of having to sign in to AO3, go to the Author, and then the story.)
> 
> Support for the Reader/Writer Community is much appreciated - not just by me, but all of us...
> 
> The "fun thing" about this type of support is - it may be FREE, but it's highly effective. Any one whose every one on here - how do you find great stories? The Directory after you type in Tags? Yes, but you look at Kudos and Comments. Right? So...
> 
> To Support AO3 Community:
> 
> * Leave KUDOS (To lead readers to quality work)...  
> * Leave COMMENTS (To strengthen that support, and let readers know what they're getting in to)...  
> * SUBSCRIBE NOW (To be emailed a convenient link [hassle free way] to catch up on your favorite stories)...
> 
> You may regret it later, so I recommend doing them now.
> 
> Any support is much appreciated by not just me, but "us - the AO3 Community."
> 
> Keeping it real,  
> Demitria_Teague (Author)  
> PS: Molly is developing a backbone... or is she being reckless? Sherlock may be out of his element, and not only is "caring a disadvantage," but so is "not knowing."   
>  Moriarty said, "Ding. Light bulb." John, pore John... If he did something to destroy the relationship with his sister, what will become of him?


End file.
